


The Possibility of Probable

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A birthday within a birthday story, M/M, Post series 4, Rosie heard but not seen, after everything, reaching out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:33:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22267201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: John didn’t cry often. In the years they’d been friends, Sherlock recalled only three occasions. What was it about this one that made John cry and his own heart ache?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 30
Collections: Happy Birthday scrub456





	The Possibility of Probable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scrub456](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, my dear friend. Wishing you a wonderful, peaceful day.

The furious shut of the downstairs door reverberated throughout the flat. Slow, heavy footsteps on each of the seventeen stairs served as a harbinger of something a bit not good. 

Sherlock jotted down the final data gathered from his latest experiment, making a mental note to order a new journal as he’d come to the end of the last page. Rising from his chair, but not turning to greet John as he entered from the landing’s kitchen door was his first mistake. 

“How was your day?”

“If my day gets any worse,” John began, pausing, then adding a sigh, “I’m asking Hell if they have an exchange program.”

The catch in John’s voice alerted Sherlock to something not just right, but he kept his own voice playful as he cleared the table. “Somebody’s grumpy.”

“Somebody needs to shut up.” 

Oh. Angry then. Apology to follow.

“Sorry,” John barely mumbled.

Hearing the wobble in his doctor’s voice Sherlock turned to look at him. John seemed small and defeated, his eyes downcast.  
“John? Are you all right?” he asked gently, belatedly noting the battered pastry box in John’s hands.

“I was hurrying to get home. It’s cold and raining and, and, I didn’t see the ice on the pavement.”

Sherlock looked him over, at the dirt on the knee of his jeans. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” John’s voice wobbled again. When he finally looked up, his eyes were too shiny to be anything but tear-filled.

“It’s okay now.” Sherlock snapped his jaw shut, realising too late it was not what John needed to hear.

“It’s not okay. I dropped the cake. I’m sorry.”

"Cake?”

John didn’t cry often. In all the years they’d been friends, Sherlock recalled only three occasions. Barts. Grave. Mary. He tried to push away the last. A year past, it was still too fresh, too near, here, in the sitting room where John revealed he’d cheated on her. All painful, but what was it about this time, because of a cake of all things, that caused his heart to ache at the sight of tears slipping down his friend’s cheeks. 

“John? Why are you..why do you have..oh.” 

John swiped at his tears with the back of his hand. No joy. 

“I know it doesn’t matter to you, that you don’t celebrate your birthday, but-”

“John.”

“It matters to me! You’re my best friend.” John’s eyes, storm- filled, and the deepest blue he hadn’t seen in an age, held his gaze. John shook his head slowly. 

Sherlock took the cake from John, placing it carefully on the table.

John looked at the pitifully crushed cake. “It’s ruined.”

“No. It’s perfect, because it’s from you.” Sherlock rested his hands on John’s shoulders, and after a moment’s hesitation, pulled him against his chest. To his surprise, John did not pull away, but, instead, leaned into him.

“Um..” John mumbled against Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock released him, stepping back. “Sorry.”

“No...no, it’s all right. It was, um, nice. Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded, certain he was blushing, but John didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he was too busy trying to hide his own pink cheeks. Sherlock took a calculated risk and gently wiped away his tears.

“May I sample the cake?” 

“It doesn’t look-”

“It’s the taste that is most important, John.” He swiped a long elegant finger through the icing and deposited a large dollop on his tongue. “Mmm, now this is a decadent treat, John.”

In an instant and without a second thought, Sherlock repeated his action, holding his icing-covered finger up to John’s lips. John lifted his gaze to Sherlock’s and accepted the offering.

“It is good. And you’re right, it is decadent. I wonder if the cake is as..”

“Let’s not wait to find out. It’s three hours until dinner, plenty of time to digest and allow our individual glycemic indexes to return to normal.”

John grinned, just a small one. Sherlock grinned back. Food and distraction always worked with his doctor.

“Wait. I have something else. You get the forks. Sitting room table, Sherlock, and don’t dilly-dally. Rosie will be awake soon.”

“Yes, John.”

Minutes later, after they’d eaten a quarter of the cake between them, Sherlock leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach.

John groaned, elbow on the table, resting his head in the palm of one hand. “Too much. Glad we don’t celebrate but once a year.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, John.”

John huffed, then giggled. “Yeah, I know, Mr Sweet Tooth.”

“I know what I like, John.”

“Yes, you certainly do,” John whispered, then cleared his throat. He averted his gaze, but Sherlock knew he’d revealed more than he’d intended. That was John’s way. Affection not in flowery words, but with tender care. 

“And we’ll be celebrating your birthday and Rosie’s this year,” Sherlock countered to ease John’s discomfort, again, by distraction. He held John’s gaze, aware that there was something else, something John was uncertain about. “What are you hiding beneath the table?”

John’s shy smile was contagious. Sherlock accepted it easily and willingly, returning it as wholeheartedly as it was given.

“It’s something I’d been looking at for awhile. I wanted to give you something special, since I’d never known when your birthday was until-” 

“Now you do.”

John placed the precisely wrapped gift into Sherlock’s hands.

“Thank you, John. That’s very kind..of you.” His heart clenched at his words, so reminiscent of a year old memory, but John seemed not to notice the words as much as his slow response to accepting the gift. 

Sherlock carefully unwrapped it to reveal a new journal. His breath caught in his throat and for a moment he couldn’t speak. 

“John.” He looked up just as the smile slowly faded from John’s handsome face. Handsome, yes, and so lovely.  
“Sherlock, it’s okay if you don’t like it. I can exchange it for something else.”

Sherlock held it, the leather-bound journal soft, no, supple beneath his fingertips. “It’s beautiful, John. I like it very much.”

“Is the color okay? It reminded me of your shirt, the purple one?”

“Aubergine, John. ”

“Yeah, that. The pen has purple, aubergine, ink, too. Is that all right? I can find another, if you’d rather.”

“It’s perfect, John. Thank you.”

John sighed with obvious relief. He was nervous, was he nervous? Why was he nervous? Oh, he was afraid he’d overstepped? Yes, that was it. Sherlock would not have it.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re home.”

“I was just out at the shops-”

“No, I mean I’m glad you wanted to come home, with Rosie. It wasn’t home until you came back. Baker Street was cold and empty without you.”

John wore a soft smile when Sherlock looked at him. He wondered if speaking his mind and heart would draw John closer or drive him away. Was he willing to take that chance?

“I love you, John Watson.” It was out before he registered the words hanging in the air between them.

A tiny smile flirted with John’s lips. “As a friend?”

After two beats of his heart, Sherlock found his voice again. “Hmm. For now?”

Rosie’s chatter via the baby monitor interrupted them, but just for a brief moment. 

John leaned across the table to press his lips to Sherlock’s; a chaste kiss between best friends. 

“Yes, all right. For now.”

John stood, moved toward the stairs that would take him from Sherlock’s sight, but just for a few minutes. John was finally home to stay. There was no longer any doubt.

Stopping at the door, John turned back. “But don’t wait too long.”

Sherlock allowed the smile he reserved for John alone, to touch his lips. The smile that made John wrinkle his nose and wonder what he was smiling about. The next time John saw that smile, well, Sherlock would make sure John knew exactly what he was smiling about. 

A year after so many endings, it was, for Sherlock, a new beginning. It felt not only possible, but probable.

“Sherlock, whatever are you smiling about?”


End file.
